John Wilmot

After death nothing is, and nothing, death: 
The utmost limit of a gasp of breath. 
Let the ambitious zealot lay aside 
His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride; 
   Let slavish souls lay by their fear, 
   Nor be concern'd which way nor where 
   After this life they shall be hurl'd. 
Dead, we become the lumber of the world, 
And to that mass of matter shall be swept 
Where things destroy'd with things unborn are kept. 
   Devouring time swallows us whole; 
Impartial death confounds body and soul. 
   For Hell and the foul fiend that rules 
   God's everlasting fiery jails 
   (Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools), 
With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door, 
Are senseless stories, idle tales, 
   Dreams, whimseys, and no more.